


vinegar

by 2manyboys



Series: caught (prince yusuf, assassin nicolo) [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Porn With Plot, Yusuf can get manhandled as a treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26636302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2manyboys/pseuds/2manyboys
Summary: Seated at an ornate dining table across from the Queen, with the prince’s hand on his leg underneath it, Nicolò finds he must pause and reflect on how he ended up here. Here being the palace, here being the royal family’s personal dining room, here being… trapped. Or perhaps un-trapped. He’s still not sure, but the warmth of Yusuf’s hand keeps him grounded.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: caught (prince yusuf, assassin nicolo) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937833
Comments: 88
Kudos: 536





	vinegar

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to 'with honey', picks up right where that ends, and will make absolutely no sense without reading it first. I've only tagged the canon characters with dialogue. A final note: don't worry, nobody dies.

Nicolò collapses onto Yusuf’s bed, falling onto his back and letting his arm dangle off the side, heartbeat slowly returning to normal. 

“It’s good we are about the same height.” Yusuf says, sounding far too coherent for a man Nicolò can still taste in his mouth. That’s new, for Nicolò. This is all new. “Do you want to shower with me or alone?”

“I do not think I could, ah.” Nicolò says, hedging, trying to assess what Yusuf wants from him. Yusuf leans forward and kisses Nicolò’s spent cock, making him twitch and squirm, and laughs when Nicolò shoves his head away. 

“Just to get clean, just to let me look at you.” Yusuf explains. 

Nicolò must take a beat too long thinking about this in silence because Yusuf sits up and meets his gaze, considering. 

“I’m afraid you’ll disappear if I let you out of my sight.” Yusuf says. He has the voice of a man who will one day be leading this country, honest and serious. Nicolò shrugs. He should make his escape; now that at least one member of the prince’s guard is aware of him and his failure, word will get out. In this case, for his expectant employers, no news _is_ news.

“Last night you said I could leave.” Nicolò reminds him. 

“You can.” Yusuf says, reassuring. He holds Nicolò’s gaze to add, boldly, “I hoped you would choose to stay with me again.”

This is very bad. Nicolò already wants to give Yusuf everything he asks for. As long as he’s still beside him, as long as he has Yusuf’s full attention, Nicolò can pretend he might be following through on this mission. He isn’t, couldn’t possibly, at this point he’s running damage control on ever being able to leave and stay alive. Knowing that’s what’s next for him, weeks on the run, Nicolò can’t possibly turn down a shower with this handsome prince who, for reasons passing understanding, wants him. 

“If I promise not to climb out the window can I have a moment alone first?” Nicolò asks, making Yusuf laugh again and nod. He is as unbelievable and magnetic in the morning light as he was last night. 

“I’ll see if I can apologize to Sébastien.” 

Nicolò doesn’t know who that is but he nods back anyway. 

Yusuf takes his hand as he climbs out of bed, the gesture teasing at proper courtship. It makes Nicolò want to hide his face, the feeling of Yusuf’s thumb rubbing across his knuckles somehow more intimate than what they’ve just done. He’s shy again despite himself, knows Yusuf can read it in his body language. Yusuf doesn’t tease, just escorts Nicolò across the room to the bathroom, utterly ridiculous and unnecessary, and says, “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

“You should put pants on first.” Nicolò suggests. 

“Should I?” Yusuf asks, tilting his head, smirking. He turns to go but only takes a few steps before glancing back, catching Nicolò admiring his ass.

* * *

It’s not long before there’s a knock at the bathroom door. Nicolò calls out, “Yes?”

His tone of voice probably betrays his sudden anxiety that it won’t be Yusuf at the door and he’ll be captured naked in the prince’s bathroom trying to turn his shower on. It is Yusuf of course, still equally nude. He doesn’t comment on Nicolò’s voice, just moves in close. For all that they’ve been in near-constant physical contact since last night, Nicolò still instinctively tenses before Yusuf’s hand makes contact with his waist. 

Yusuf tenses too, just as quickly freezing with his hand inches away, his reaction time admirable. Nicolò has the sudden thought that he’d like to cross swords with this man and shoves that down as an impossibility. This is the prince. Nicolò is lucky to be close to him like this, unarmed. He presses up against Yusuf’s hand before Yusuf asks if he’s okay, putting a hand on Yusuf’s chest in return. It makes him smile. 

“Can I help?” Yusuf asks, gesturing to the faucet. 

“Please do.” Nicolò says, stepping aside, purely coincidentally giving himself a better view of Yusuf’s ass as he leans over into the tub. Yusuf glances back, catches him looking again, and smiles wider. 

“Sweetheart, you can have whatever you ask for.” Yusuf says, keeping his voice low. If he sounded like a leader before he sounds like nothing but a lover now. 

Nicolò finds he may have been hasty in ruling out another such encounter, but he’s already making escape plans in the back of his mind. Yusuf deserves more from a partner than Nicolò could ever offer him. He doesn’t answer. Yusuf gets the shower running and turns back to him, careful to telegraph his movements as he reaches to hold Nicolò’s face in both hands, searching his eyes for something. 

“No regrets, I hope?” Yusuf says. 

“No.” Nicolò assures him, “No I, I’m very, um.”

“Do not say ‘grateful’.” Yusuf groans, pressing his forehead against Nicolò’s for a moment. “I’ll feel terrible if you say grateful.”

“I’m grateful to God.” Nicolò says, emphatic, “For giving me the one lover I would have asked for, if I had known what to ask for.”

“Oh, _Nicolò_.” Yusuf breathes, “I have to kiss you if you’re going to talk like that.”

Nicolò licks his lips and says, “I will remember you for the rest of my life.” 

He doesn’t miss the flash of something profoundly _sad_ in Yusuf’s eyes before Yusuf kisses him, giving him what he asked for. Nicolò isn’t sure what he did wrong but he presses closer, kisses Yusuf the best he knows how. 

Yusuf pulls away first, dropping his hands from Nicolò’s face to say, soft, “We shouldn’t waste hot water.” 

Still playing a gentleman, Yusuf supports Nicolò as he steps into the tub as if he’s helping him get his foot into a stirrup. His hand lingers above the curve of Nicolò’s ass before he follows him in, pulling the curtain closed around them. It’s steamy, on the verge of too hot, but Nicolò finds it to be perfect bliss. Yusuf is so close, his gaze dark and appreciative. 

He holds the soap to Nicolò’s chest and asks, “Let me?” Nicolò can only nod, though he isn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. Somehow Yusuf sees this and keeps talking to him, enhancing the intimacy of the moment but keeping Nicolò’s breathing even and calm with the cadence of his voice. “I’m grateful too, you know, Nicolò. That you found me, that you came to bed with me.” 

Yusuf raises Nicolò’s hand to his mouth and kisses the center of his palm, looking at him with a deeper tenderness than Nicolò has ever seen. He thinks he understands now, some facet of the sadness in Yusuf’s eyes before they entered this little world apart from the rest. Nicolò has been thinking ahead to hours from now, days, thinking about the task of disappearing and somehow maintaining his reputation. He hasn’t been thinking about saying goodbye. 

Yusuf turns him gently, angling him more directly into the spray and soaping his back now, pressing close enough that he can keep his voice low. “You’re gorgeous, Nicolò, beautiful, a better lover than I’ve had in some time. They didn’t stay unless they wanted something.”

“I wanted this.” Nicolò confesses in a whisper, flushing when Yusuf’s hands stop moving against his skin. Yusuf kisses the back of his neck just once and Nicolò tilts his head forward, shameless, asking for it again. “You keep giving me things I didn’t know to ask for.”

Yusuf kisses him again, lingering, and says, “Can I mark you here?” 

He says it without a hint of expectation. Nicolò thinks Yusuf is suggesting it could be another one of those things. He hopes Yusuf is being selfish too. “Please.”

Yusuf steps closer still, the feel of his hips pressing against Nicolò makes him shiver and brace a hand against the shower wall. He’s glad for it when Yusuf gets his mouth on him, the hard suction another new and wonderful sensation. Nicolò can feel it after Yusuf pulls away, loves it with a ferocity he didn’t expect. He wants another, a dozen more, wants whatever marks Yusuf will give him. 

All he can do is swallow hard, fighting off the enormity of this connection, and remind himself of what he needs to do when he steps out of this shower. 

“Good?” Yusuf asks, hands at his hips urging Nicolò to turn back again. Only Yusuf’s hands clutching tight keep him from falling as Nicolò turns almost too fast, desperate to kiss him again. Yusuf makes a pleased noise against his mouth, getting him to take a step back and rinse the soap from his back at the same time. 

Nicolò only pulls away from the sensation of Yusuf’s beard against him and the heat of his mouth to reach for the soap in Yusuf’s hands and ask, “Can I?”

“I wish you would.” Yusuf says, pressing it into Nicolò’s hands. He says it like there’s a second half of that sentence trapped behind his teeth, or maybe just one more word. 

Nicolò drops his gaze, dragging the bar of soap across Yusuf’s collarbone with deliberate slowness. Yusuf’s soapy hands clutch at Nicolò’s hips, watching his face. 

Thinking about everything that people must want from Yusuf, the prince, this man, Nicolò applies his focus to soaping every inch of his skin and says, too honest, “I may be in trouble, after this.”

“Danger, you mean.” Yusuf corrects, humorless though it makes Nicolò want to laugh. He’s nearly always in danger. What he’s about to say is the thing most likely to get him killed but he wants it too badly not to say it.

“You won’t be able to get a message to me for some time.” Nicolò says. Yusuf will never be able to get him a message that won't be traced, if Yusuf ever does contact him he’ll really be in trouble. 

Nicolò feels Yusuf’s sharp intake of breath under his hands but doesn’t look up at him, afraid of what that might mean. He starts to kneel instead, thinking of the soft skin at Yusuf’s ankles, but Yusuf clutches at him, won’t let him lower himself. 

“Don’t. Hold on, just, wait a moment, Nicolò. _Please_ don’t kneel. What do you mean?” Yusuf asks. The tinge of desperation in his voice, the way he crowds almost close enough to press a leg between Nicolò’s, has him braving looking up. They stare at each other, pink from the heat of the shower. 

“If you wanted.” Nicolò starts, face scrunching with uncertainty. “If you wanted to… write to me. Or. Of course, you don’t have to. That is.” 

“Nicolò.” Yusuf says, pressing his hands to Nicolò’s face, his chest, his shoulders, almost frantic. “Nicolò, how do I make it clearer? You don’t have to go anywhere.” 

Nicolò doesn’t know how to answer that, tries kissing him but Yusuf leans away, frowning with real concern. He looks away, digs his nails into the soap, and there’s a long moment of uncomfortable silence between them. It’s the first of their acquaintance, the first silence that isn’t also heated with passion. Yusuf takes a deep breath, stroking Nicolò’s face, and kisses him softly like an apology. He rearranges them in silence so he can rinse the soap from his chest and arms, silently allowing Nicolò to think. 

Slowly growing colder in the back of the shower, away from the water and the heat of Yusuf’s body, Nicolò says the only thing he can think to say, “There are always consequences.” 

Yusuf visibly holds back whatever his first reaction is to that, all the muscles in his shoulders going tense and relaxing again with obvious effort. He closes his eyes for a second and Nicolò drinks in the way Yusuf looks, water dripping down his long dark eyelashes. It shoots straight through him when Yusuf looks back at him; the way his voice sounds when he speaks hurts deep in Nicolo’s chest. “Will you let me feed you, before you go?”

Nicolò can only say, “Yes.” to him, only ever wants to.

* * *

There are two immediate problems with this plan. The first is that Nicolò has no change of clothes. They discover this quickly and Yusuf’s delight almost—but not quite—clears the worry lingering on his forehead. He hurries Nicolò into his truly enormous closet, hooking his chin over Nicolò’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his middle, saying, “You must let me dress you, that suit was terrible.”

“That’s my best suit.” Nicolò protests. Yusuf squeezes him tighter. 

“I suppose you’ll want your own underwear back.” Yusuf teases, keeping the tone light. Clearly neither of them wants to drag out this goodbye, but Nicolò still manages to remind them both that’s what it is. 

“I’m not going to let that be your momento of me.” He says, pleased when it only makes Yusuf laugh and head back into the bedroom to find them. 

Nicolò, meanwhile, runs a hand across the softness of Yusuf’s many sweaters. It’s not yet cold enough to need one (otherwise they couldn’t have spent this much of the morning naked) but he likes them, likes thinking about this exact shade of burgundy against Yusuf’s skin, the way his chain might peek out of the collar. Yusuf comes back and catches him looking. 

“That should fit you alright, though your shoulders are wider than mine.” Yusuf muses.

“They are not.” Nicolò says. Yusuf only leers at him, making Nicolò huff and hold a hand out for his underwear. 

Yusuf does not hand them over. He says, “You don’t want them back. I cut them off of you, remember?” 

Nicolò hadn’t remembered, not after all that came after that moment, or possibly his guilty mind let him forget. Looking at the scrap of fabric in Yusuf’s hand he feels his face go hot with some combination of shame and arousal. Whatever Yusuf reads in his silence makes him hum thoughtfully and cross the enormous closet to his own underwear drawer. Nicolo quietly protests Yusuf exchanging the scrap for a pair of his much nicer briefs, and then they’re back to their standoff. 

Yusuf grins. “I’m dressing you, remember?” 

“I did not think you meant that literally.” Nicolò says. He takes a step forward, thoughtful. 

“That or you go without, unless you think you can take them.” Yusuf challenges. He must see the instant gleam in Nicolò’s eyes because he takes a step back to maintain some distance. 

That isn't enough to stop Nicolò from advancing in one move, launching forward to push Yusuf up against the wall. He moves fast, clearly much faster than Yusuf expected. Nicolò grips Yusuf’s shoulder with one hand and snatches the underwear with the other, pressing hard against the inside of Yusuf’s wrist to make him release it. Yusuf gasps and shakes his hand out, otherwise frozen with his back against the wall. 

“Fuck.” Yusuf says. “What was _that?_ ”

Nicolò yanks his hand off of Yusuf like his skin is burning, saying, “Sorry, I didn’t, I only-“

“You really could have killed me.” Yusuf is saying over him, awed. “If you had that knife right now, you could have.”

“I _wouldn’t_ ,” Nicolò insists, recoiling at the thought, “I’m sorry Yusuf, I didn't mean to make you scared or-“

“Scared?” Yusuf asks incredulously, breaking down into laughter, reaching for Nicolò to help hold him up as he shakes with it. Nicolò freezes, still uncertain, until Yusuf takes his hand and guides it between his legs. 

_Oh._ Nicolò thinks, because Yusuf had certainly been interested in the shower but he’s fully hard now. “Not scared?”

“Not scared.” Yusuf confirms, pulling Nicolò closer until he’s boxing Yusuf in against the wall again. 

Nicolò gets lost in kissing him, seeing how aggressive Yusuf will let him be. Very, as it turns out. He drapes his arms over Nicolò’s shoulders and melts back against the wall, moaning softly, and they make out for long minutes. Yusuf makes a different, lower, noise when Nicolò shifts from holding his cock to stroking it. Nicolò keeps kissing him, swallowing those noises, even as Yusuf clearly can’t split his attention, getting sloppy. 

When it truly gets to be too much, Yusuf tears his mouth away, whacking his head against the wall behind him. Nicolò drops the underwear, surprised to find himself still holding them, to cup his hand against the back of Yusuf’s head, mumbling, “Shh, I have you, Yusuf. I have you.”

Yusuf makes a wounded noise, almost hiccuping like he can’t catch his breath, and his face screws up as he comes messily into Nicolò’s hand. He nearly slides down onto the floor, knees buckling, but Nicolò catches him at the hip and under his arm, reacting fast, leaving Yusuf to whine and get a hand around where he’s been abandoned.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nicolò whispers, wanting to kiss him again but knowing he’s still catching his breath. 

Just like last night Yusuf is rough with himself, stroking until Nicolò knows it would be too much for him. It’s so hot Nicolò is considering asking for something, anything, but the larger part of his brain is replaying the tone of Yusuf’s voice in the shower when he said _They didn’t stay unless they wanted something_. The most Nicolò will take from Yusuf now is some clothes and some food, even that feels like too much. The most he’ll ask for now is a kiss. 

He doesn’t have to ask in the end. Yusuf gets his hand—the one that isn’t filthy—in Nicolos hair and drags him in for a kiss. He’s in charge of this one, it’s sweet enough to make a blush rise on the back of Nicolò’s neck. 

“Fuck.” Yusuf says after, looking down at his hand and stomach like he’s still a little dazed at how fast that happened, “Hand me that underwear?” Nicolò rolls his eyes. 

“How about a towel?” He asks, but Yusuf doesn’t let him move an inch. 

“Wait, Nico.” Yusuf says, and then looks embarrassed to have shortened his name without invitation. He pushes past it, tugging at Nicolò’s hair, and asks, “You don’t want…?”

Nicolò shakes his head, leaning in to kiss Yusuf’s cheek, just along the edge of his beard. “No, thank you. You’re not going to fall down again are you?”

Yusuf laughs, loosening his grip so Nicolò can walk back to the bathroom. He doesn’t fall when Nicolò lets him go, but he leans heavily against the wall and laughs harder when Nicolò pauses to take him in. Yusuf looks more wrecked now than he did after Nicolò fucked him, maybe just because he’s struggling to stay upright. 

Nicolò, when he does manage to leave the enormous closet, rushes to and from the bathroom. He’s afraid of being caught in any room of the palace without Yusuf and clearly at least one member of Yusuf’s guard isn’t shy about barging in. 

When he gets back, Yusuf is idly considering his hand, wet with his come. Nicolò gets the damp towel around it before Yusuf can bring it any closer to his mouth, feeling like this man is a temptation sent specifically to derail all other thoughts beyond wanting him. Then he puts his borrowed underwear on, before Yusuf gets any ideas about still needing to dress him. 

Nicolò ends up in Yusuf’s soft burgundy sweater and pants that have clearly been tailored to the prince. He struggles to get them on while Yusuf sits on the floor leaning back on his hands, watching and grinning. 

“Your thighs are incredible.” He says, like he’s not the one posing nude but for his silver chain, though it’s true that Nicolò’s thighs are testing the seams of these pants. “I like you in my clothes.”

“I like you in nothing at all.” Nicolò replies, “But I’m starving.”

They arrive quickly at the second problem, which is that Nicolò insists on not being seen together. Yusuf, after he carelessly throws on a shirt and pants like Nicolò is making him get dressed but he refuses to waste any more time on it than necessary, doesn’t understand why he’s making this a problem. 

“We must have been seen leaving the party, Nicolò. What does it matter if we’re seen going to breakfast?”

“I cannot leave the palace with you.” Nicolò says, tone final, arms crossed. “I won't put you in danger too.” 

“You rhyme well but your poetry needs work.” Yusuf grumbles, though he relents and agrees to be sneaky and stay in. 

This plan backfires on Nicolò so spectacularly he later wishes he could find a way to blame Yusuf for it.

* * *

Seated at an ornate dining table across from the Queen, with the prince’s hand on his leg underneath it, Nicolò finds he must pause and reflect on how he ended up here. Here being the palace, here being the royal family’s personal dining room, here being… trapped. Or perhaps un-trapped. He’s still not sure, but the warmth of Yusuf’s hand keeps him grounded.

“We didn’t speak long enough at the party for me to ask after your family.” The Queen says. She doesn’t ask directly, the question is there only if he wants to answer it. 

Nicolò glances at Yusuf, who looks equally curious, and then back at the Queen. “I’m afraid I’ve been on my own for many years, your highness.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She says, sipping tea and shooting Yusuf a look. He takes his hand off Nicolò’s leg like a reflex but puts it back just as quickly, squeezing. 

“We’re not meant to be alone.” Yusuf agrees. Nicolò considers the fruit at the table and shifts awkwardly, every motion reminding him that he’s in Yusuf’s clothing. It’s soft and smells like him, more than Nicolò can handle. 

He doesn’t take jobs like this, usually. He’s not good at getting this close. He knows better, or he thought he did before this whole thing started. 

They told him the royal family is corrupt beyond imagining. They convinced him they’re stealing the money they supposedly invest in orphanages and other public works, they showed him forged documents and hired actors. Yusuf’s nearly-universal adoration they explain with bribery and seduction. Nicolò believes them. Yusuf is golden and gorgeous and the palace is enormous, the largest building he’s ever seen. 

The boss laughed when they brought Nicolò to him, untied the blindfold and gestured at his face. He said, in a language Nicolò didn’t tell them he can speak, “This will be too easy.” 

Nicolò isn’t sure how he didn’t register that red flag. Giving himself the benefit of the doubt he might say he was busy memorizing the route they took to get there, the faces of the men around him. He was embarrassed too, at the way they kept calling him _pretty_ and _just his type_. In all honesty, he was low on funds and had been getting smoked out of every hideout for months. This was a job when he needed one, a job with a deadline too soon to do his own reconnaissance. 

This is what he gets for being sloppy. He’s slowly turning red with the realization that the Queen must know what Yusuf’s clothes look like. Yusuf squeezes his leg again. 

“Are you unwell?”

Nicolò shakes his head. 

“No longer hungry?” Yusuf tries again to prompt him to speak. 

Nicolò _is_ hungry but he can’t remember any of the rules. He doesn’t know if he can peel an orange the way he’s always done it, if the Queen and the prince are watching him. This alone makes him feel more like running than any memory of the men who hired him and their weapons stockpiles. When he said there had to be consequences he didn’t consider heartbreak. 

Yusuf takes his hand away to pour Nicolò another cup of mint tea, looking like he’s about to demand answers. They both turn as Yusuf’s mother slides her chair back and hurriedly get to their feet as well, a lot less graceful than her. 

“Please, enjoy your breakfast.” The Queen says. She gives Yusuf a look that Nicolò cannot begin to interpret and turns to him to add, “Be welcome here, Nicolò.” 

He can only duck his head, flustered and caught out. After she leaves the room, Yusuf pushes Nicolò back into his chair and leans across the table to pull every available food option towards him. 

“If you insist on journeying away from me, you cannot do so with an empty stomach.” Yusuf says. 

“I do not insist.” Nicolò mumbles, “Only, I must.” 

“I cannot make you stay.” Yusuf replies, lowering his voice to match Nicolò’s though they are alone now, “I will not be like whoever commanded you here in the first place.”

“You couldn’t.” Nicolò says, capturing Yusuf’s hands, “I meant it when I said you could write to me.”

“I don't want to write to you.” Yusuf says, and in the brief pause before he continues Nicolò thinks his heart may stop beating right here at the breakfast table, “I want to hold you.” 

The words slip out of Nicolò’s mouth before he can stop them, “You cannot mean that.” 

Yusuf looks hurt, almost angry though clearly not at Nicolò, “Can’t I?”

Despite himself, Nicolò keeps talking. “I’m no one, Yusuf, from nowhere, and I came into your home to do you harm.”

“You didn’t, though.” Yusuf whispers, not letting Nicolò pull his hands away. “You brought kindness here, in the end.”

“Kindness.” Nicolò scoffs, “I brought a knife.”

Yusuf’s brows come together, that same look of concern, “I won't let you make this something it wasn’t. You can’t pretend you don’t feel this.” 

“I’m not pretending to be a killer.” Nicolò says, speaking faster like he’s afraid Yusuf will interrupt, “I know now what kind of man you are and I’m sorry for ever believing otherwise. I’ve made mistakes, I try to do good but the skills I have lend themselves to violence and I don't know... I don't know how to... I can’t possibly be someone you should hold on to.”

Yusuf takes his face between his hands and says, “Nicolò, breathe for me. When exactly did you last eat?”

Nicolò finds he cannot remember, eyes dropping away from Yusuf’s face. Yusuf’s thumbs stroke along his cheekbones, soothing and tender. Yusuf leans closer, nearly all the way out of his chair, just to touch their foreheads together. The chain around Yusuf’s neck swings once against Nicolò’s collarbones. 

“It upsets me more than it should to hear you speak this way about yourself, having known you only a day.” Yusuf whispers into the space between them. “Will you have some food for me?”

Nicolò nods, bumping their heads together, and Yusuf slowly pulls away. They eat in relative silence, not uncomfortable but with a looming sadness, until Nicolò sees Yusuf reach for an orange. He cannot help but laugh to himself, softly but still enough to capture Yusuf’s complete attention. Yusuf peels it just the same way Nicolò would have. Wordlessly, he hands Nicolò the first slice.

* * *

They don’t even make it out of the palace before all of Nicolò’s plans are shattered once again. He’s beginning to think this is simply Yusuf’s influence, a kind of chaos caused by the unlikeliness of him, how good he is, that balance must be maintained by bad things happening around him. It’s possible Nicolò is only being maudlin, but he assumes that’s what leaving Yusuf does to everyone. 

Nicolò spots their first attacker before the man sees them, recognizes him from negotiations by his little sneer of a smile. He’s disguised in the colors of the royal household but he’s done the tie incorrectly and his boots are wrong, too practical for the gleaming floors of the palace. Nicolò does not hesitate to push Yusuf behind him, loudly yank a decorative spear off the wall beside them, and throw it down the hallway. 

It catches the man through the shoulder and pins him to the wall for a moment, then, predictably, he screams and lurches forward, taking some of the wall with him. 

“What the fuck.” Yusuf says, but he’s already handing Nicolò a blunt sword from off the wall. This won’t be pretty. 

The two of them make quick work of the man foolish enough to run straight at them. Yusuf has kept hold of the rope that had been holding the sword and spear together in the symbol of some royal household Nicolò cannot remember, so Nicolò doesn’t have to kill him, in the end. Yusuf restrains him while Nicolò presses on the still-embedded spear, sword pointed at the man’s gut, keeping him still. They leave him tied up and still screaming for the guards to find and Nicolò follows Yusuf’s directions towards a more defensible position while Nicolò explains, “They must have discovered I failed and gone ahead with a back-up plan.”

“My mother?” Yusuf asks, “Was she also a target?” They aren’t running but they are rushing, turning along corridors too fast for Nicolò to have any idea where they are when they stop.

“Not that I know of.” Nicolò says, watching up and down the hall as Yusuf fiddles with a locked door. “Her appointment as Queen will end soon, it makes more sense to target you as the natural successor and force her to turn power over to one of them somehow.”

“What about attacking us after you skewered him screams ‘sense’ to you, Nicolò?”

“Well.” Nicolò mumbles, embarrassed once again to have been involved with these people, “They did have a plan, although it relied on my seducing you, so I suppose…”

“You’ve seduced me twice just this morning.” Yusuf says, finally getting the door open. Nicolò cannot look at him, hearing that tone of voice. If he looks at him he’ll only need to kiss him and he can’t afford that distraction right now.

“Get inside.” Nicolò says instead, voice low. 

“I’d love to.” Yusuf replies, heavy with euphemistic implication. 

“The _room_ , Yusuf.” Nicolò complains, feeling himself blush, gesturing shortly with his sword. “This is the only door, I’ll stand guard.” 

“It is, but you won’t.”

“Yes, I will.”

“No, Nicolò-“

“I told you there would be consequences, surely they are mine to face? You cannot order me not to protect you, I-“

“Nicolò.” Yusuf groans, tugging on his own hair in frustration, “This is a weapon’s room.”

“Oh.” 

They both go inside, slamming the door behind them on the sound of loud hurried footsteps coming their way. 

Nicolò quickly exchanges his blunt, ceremonial sword for a far more practical and deadly two-handed one, testing the weight and glancing up to find Yusuf is watching him, lower lip between his teeth. It hasn’t been long but he knows that look. 

“Your life is at stake.” Nicolò reminds him. 

“I can't help it.” 

Twice isn’t enough for him apparently, but there’s a knock at the door before Nicolò can question him further. They turn towards it as one, Yusuf tilting his head to listen to the pattern and frowning at not hearing anything he recognizes in it. 

“Will you not stand back?” Nicolò asks, half begging, even as Yusuf selects his own weapon. He knows the prince doesn’t look like he does for show, knows he is a warrior as much as Nicolò is, but he doesn’t want Yusuf to fight this battle. Nicolò’s mistakes are his alone, indefensible.

“I will not simply watch you be overrun when you open that door.” Yusuf says. He smiles at Nicolò’s surprise. “You did intend to meet them head on, didn’t you?” 

Nicolò isn’t used to being read so easily, isn’t used to being understood like this, let alone by someone who treats him as an equal when he should not. “I did.” He says shortly. 

Yusuf nods and readies his sword. The knocking stops. 

Nicolò opens the door and immediately blocks a slash, preparing to shove forward and attack when Yusuf shouts, “Booker!” He sounds cheerful, though Nicolò and the man keep their swords crossed for a long moment, glaring at each other, neither giving an inch of ground. 

“I’m sure there are enough real enemies on their way for you both to show off, if you’d like to stop the di-“ Yusuf says, all teasing.

“Do not say it.” Booker interrupts with a grumble, disengaging. He turns his back on Nicolò after that, rude and presumptuous, turning to face down the way Yusuf and Nicolò came. Another man Nicolò recognizes despite his poor disguise is slumped against the door across from theirs, dead. Though he’s still annoyed at being written off as an opponent so quickly—why should Booker trust that Yusuf hasn’t been misled by Nicolò?—he is gratified to see Booker is taking the larger threat to Yusuf’s life seriously. 

“How many have you already dispatched?” Nicolò asks.

Booker doesn’t look at him, just shrugs one shoulder and says, “Only him.” 

“I would guess there will be four others, stronger, more ruthless.”

“You would _guess?_ ” 

Nicolò turns to Yusuf, incredulous, to ask, “ _This_ is your only guard?”

Booker and Yusuf both laugh at that. “He’s not a guard, Nico, he’s like a brother to me.”

“The guards are focused on the Queen and the exits.” Booker explains. “The prince isn’t where he was meant to be and he’s capable of defending himself. They don’t waste men searching during an active threat to the Queen.”

Nicolò must look pissed about this because Yusuf lowers his sword for a moment to step closer. He brushes his fingers against the back of Nicolò’s neck, over the mark he made. Booker is still watching the hallway but Nicolò realizes the mark is fully visible, not covered by Yusuf’s sweater at all. He flushes.

“You said you trust me.” Yusuf says, withdrawing again. Nicolò and Booker are obvious about keeping him between them and he doesn’t make a move against this arrangement but it’s clear he’s arguing against Nicolò’s protectiveness in particular. 

“I do.” Nicolò agrees. There’s heavy footsteps headed their way again, they all shift into defensive positions. “But I won't let them touch you.” 

Booker sighs loud enough to let them know he can hear this and he’s rolling his eyes. 

Their attackers appear at both ends of the hall, dressed in all black like they hadn’t planned to enter the palace until after dark. There are four, just as he suspected, two arriving from each direction. They look ridiculous and unrecognizable, weighed down by layers and too much gear, faces barely visible, failing to react to the new circumstances of their attack plan. In contrast, Booker and Nicolò quickly close ranks with Yusuf between them, keeping their backs to each other and swords raised, wordless and practiced though they’ve just met. 

Nicolò is not a man to be overconfident but he suspects this will be easy. None of these people could get anywhere near Yusuf before him. He forgets that they will recognize him too. 

“Ah, the slut.” One says, pausing down the hallway ahead of Nicolò to flourish their sword. Nicolò selfishly hopes Yusuf doesn’t speak their language, but it’s clear from his outraged snarl that he does, or at least he knows that word. Nicolò physically holds him back from making an attack, and still the fool continues speaking, “You rolled over for him didn’t you? Just like the rest.”

This reminder of Yusuf’s other conquests bothers Nicolò less than he would have thought. Strangely he’s just proud to have made the list and, regardless, he bets he’s the only one carrying Yusuf’s mark now. “If you come any closer, I will kill you.” Nicolò promises. 

“That would be a change.” The other figure ahead of him jokes. It is a little funny, but Nicolò has no time to think of a rejoinder because they both rush forward. Nicolò can hear the other two rushing Booker behind him but focuses on his own opponents, side stepping to prevent Yusuf from moving out from behind him, knowing it goes against the exact trust Yusuf was asking for. He can’t. Yusuf should stay safe or he should help his brother, he should not risk himself for Nicolò. 

Without much room to maneuver, the fight is over quickly. He’s outnumbered but Nicolò manages to disarm the one that reaches him first, shoving them hard enough that they stumble backwards away from their dropped sword. The second swings wildly, just catching Nicolò across the forearm when he moves to block. They’re dead the next moment, but Nicolò can’t get his sword free of their body before the other one is back on their feet, hands closing around Nicolò’s neck. 

This remaining attacker is larger than him and desperate. They don’t even try to maintain the upper hand when they have it. Instead they shove Nicolò away, nearly tripping after him. Nicolò turns his head as he falls—sees Booker chasing after a dark figure and Yusuf wiping his blood-soaked blade against the pants of another—then his head slams back against a doorknob. Nicolò reaches blindly towards his attacker but can’t quite get a grip on them, it’s as if they’re six inches to the left of what he’s seeing. 

He hears Yusuf shout his name, feels a spike of pain in his abdomen, and manages at last to grab the man who’s just stabbed him. Nicolò pulls the knife free of his body and, before he completely loses the plot, jabs it into their neck. As they fall away and Yusuf comes into view, Nicolò’s vision goes black.

* * *

He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to open his eyes again but when he does Yusuf is crying. Nicolò clutches at Yusuf’s shirt, gasping wetly, tasting blood in his mouth. 

“Scared?” He manages, hoping that’s more coherent than it is in his head. It hurts. 

“Yes, Nicolò.” Yusuf says. He’s pressing hard against Nicolo’s body, that hurts too but he won’t move his hands when Nicolò tugs weakly at his sleeves. 

“For me?” 

“Of course for you. You’ll be alright, Sébastien is getting the doctor.”

“Why?” Nicolò asks, forgetting what the problem is. It hurts, he knows that. 

“You’re hurt, Nico.” Yusuf confirms, through tears. 

He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, Yusuf is there, crying. 

“You’re scared?” Nicolò asks, surprised. 

“It’s okay, shh, I have you. I love you. It’ll be alright. The doctor is coming.” 

He closes his eyes. When he opens them, Yusuf is there. 

He’s asleep in a chair at an awkward angle, the top half of his body folded over the side of the bed Nicolò is lying in. He’s holding Nicolò’s hand. 

Nicolò’s head hurts, hurts so bad he’s tempted to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but there’s something wrong. Yusuf should be in bed with him. Yusuf shouldn’t be anywhere near him. Nicolò can’t remember how both of these things are true. He resists sleep, focusing instead on his body, from his head downwards. His arm aches, he manages to look down at it slowly, seeing the bandage. Someone took Yusuf’s soft sweater away. Nicolò has another larger bandage around his midsection, tight enough that breathing feels funny. 

He’s definitely been drugged, knows what that feels like. It’s frightening not to remember how he got here, or even where _here_ is exactly, but the room is quiet and Yusuf is holding his hand. Despite the pain, Nicolò falls back asleep. 

The next time he wakes he doesn’t open his eyes. People are arguing in the room with him, the only voice he recognizes is Yusuf’s, and he wants to hear. 

“I don’t care.” Yusuf is saying, loudly, “I’m not leaving him.”

“You’re being an idiot, nothing is going to happen to him here. If you want to do something about the people who did this-“

“I’m not you, I’m not motivated by revenge. Everything I want is in this room.”

“Yusuf…”

“And don’t you think I’m scared that ‘nothing’ will happen? That he’ll never wake up? You think I can leave knowing he could be gone when I return?!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. You know I didn't mean that. Stay, Andromache and I will deal with it.” 

Yusuf suddenly sounds much closer. He takes Nicolò’s hand and says, “Thank you.”

Nicolò waits for the door to close before he opens his eyes. Yusuf catches him immediately, breathing a loud and shaky sigh of relief. He's crying again before Nicolò can find his voice and beg him not to. He leans over the bed to kiss Nicolò’s forehead, even that little bit of jostling making Nicolò hiss a tiny pained noise. Yusuf pulls back, squeezes his hand, and says, “Do you want ice?” 

It’s like he’s been stabbed before, like he remembers the thirst. Nicolò is furious to imagine this must be true, but nods. Yusuf gives him a piece, and then another, and finally Nicolò can ask him, “What happened?”

“You’re an idiot.” Yusuf says immediately. He winces after this outburst but doesn’t take it back. “We were attacked and you wouldn’t let me protect you.”

“You’re the-“ Nicolò starts to protest, but Yusuf cuts him off by rudely putting more ice in his mouth. 

“Only you make me want to be something else.”

Nicolò squints at him in disbelief. He’s seen Yusuf’s closet, his bed, his breakfast spread. Nobody would give that up for a scruffy assassin with earrings and a distinct lack of sexual history. Yusuf stares back, the same challenge on his face from breakfast, the same _can’t I?_ in his eyes, wet with tears for Nicolò. 

“I have to go.” Nicolò says, abrupt, muffled by the ice in his mouth. Yusuf snorts, not even bothering to make a move to stop him. Nicolò quickly discovers he cannot even sit up. “I have to, Yusuf, there are more of them.”

“Quỳnh and Andromache can handle them. I’m sure they’ll come back to meet you when they’re done.” 

“Yusuf.” Nicolò begs. 

“Don’t 'Yusuf' me. You’re on bedrest for weeks, Doctor’s orders.” Yusuf says, squeezing Nicolò’s hand again, “I should go and get her.” He doesn’t move.

Nicolò searches desperately for a way to make up for all of this but his mind is still moving sluggishly, frustratingly slow to make connections. If he cannot go to the men who want to kill Yusuf then maybe he can stay close enough to Yusuf to stop them that way. “Your bed?”

It takes Yusuf a second to figure out what he’s asking. Bedrest in his bed, bedrest with the prince as a human pillow. Nicolò is asking for a lot. He has a responsibility here. Yusuf considers his expression for a long moment. 

“Nicolò.” Yusuf sighs eventually, dropping his forehead against their joined hands. “You don’t remember.” 

“Remember what?” Nicolò asks, lost. He doesn’t remember much past breakfast.

Yusuf lifts his head, “I’ll say it as often as you like, but listen closer this time, for me, okay?” 

“Okay.” Nicolò agrees, and then, when Yusuf still just stares at him, “You’re scaring me.”

“Me!” Yusuf says, incredulous. “You got stabbed, Nico!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do that anymore.” Yusuf insists, “And you can’t come to my bed because you think you have to.”

Nicolò goes red, turning away at this rejection, the ease with which Yusuf reads him. Yusuf gently draws his face back around, ringed fingers against his chin, deep tenderness in his eyes. 

He waits until Nicolò is looking at him to say, “I love you.”

Nicolò’s head is full of cotton and white noise, heart beating out of his chest. “What did you say?” 

Yusuf looks like he’s trying not to laugh, or maybe he’s still just crying. Nicolò isn’t sure of most things right now. “You just said you would listen better.” 

“I think I hit my head.” Nicolò tells him. “It sounded like you said you love me.” 

“You did hit your head, sweetheart.” Yusuf says, soft. Whatever blank look Nicolò is giving him must be concerning because he gently takes his hands out of Nicolò’s grip and stands, repeating, “I have to get the doctor.” 

“Wait.” Nicolò says, struggling again to sit up, actually managing some movement before he collapses backwards again with a long pained hiss like a deflating balloon. 

Yusuf’s hands flutter over his bandages but don’t make contact. He sounds almost mad when he says, “You have to stay in bed, Nicolò, you have to get better.” 

Nicolò is panting as the pain slowly recedes, but he manages to ask again for the thing he wants most, the thing he needs to know before he lets sleep take him back under, “Your bed?” 

At least Yusuf doesn’t sigh this time, but he still stares at Nicolò, trying to figure him out. Nicolò realizes he must look terrible, pale and bruised. Yusuf said he loves him. 

“Please?” Nicolò asks, doubling down. 

“I can deny you nothing.” Yusuf says. He sounds so sad. Nicolò can’t figure out how to make him smile, can’t do anything right now. He makes a wounded sound, squeezing his eyes shut, and feels Yusuf kiss his forehead again. Something about that convinces Nicolò’s body that he’s safe. He falls back asleep to that feeling.

* * *

Time passes irregularly for the next few weeks. Nicolò doesn’t remember much of it at first, the drugs and boredom numbing him worse than the ice cubes. Yusuf is there a lot, sometimes Booker and other friends including Quỳnh and Andromache, warriors who cleaned up his mess and protected Yusuf for him. He likes them very much. 

When the doctor says he can finish his recuperation elsewhere, Yusuf insists on carrying him back to his rooms. It’s not necessary, Nicolò has already been walking, but he doesn’t protest. He does ask his new friends to make sure nobody else will see them along the way, delighting in playing dumb when Yusuf complains about it. 

He still spends a lot of time resting, working his way through the palace library, lounging in Yusuf’s rooms like—as Andromache puts it—a particularly vicious housecat. Nicolò suspects Yusuf exaggerated their fight in the retelling but he won’t contradict anything that makes Andromache look him over like she’ll have work for him when he’s healed. 

Yusuf has returned to his courting gestures, their physical relationship taking a back seat to getting to know each other better. They talk for hours, over meals and walks in the gardens and at night before bed. Yusuf buys Nicolò a new suit so he can bring him along to dinner parties and introduce him to more friends, like Prince Lykon and his bodyguard Nile. Not many people hear the real story of how Nicolò and Yusuf met, but these two do. They fall over each other laughing, Nicolò finds he likes them very much too. 

Nicolò has never had these things before, such strong friendships, leisure to study what he will. Just as the doctor is ready to clear him for more physical pursuits—and won’t it be wonderful to go riding with Yusuf, to knock Booker on his ass in the training ring, to swim and run and fight—Nicolò realizes what he really has is a home. He wants to stay. 

Yusuf turns to him that night, asking Nicolò his opinion on grain stockpiles or taxes or something Nicolò never thought anyone would ever ask him his opinion about and is surprised to find he has one. Yusuf listens. Asks him a follow-up question. Writes down his answer. Yusuf has proven to him a hundred times that he meant it when he said he wanted an equal, that he considers Nicolò to be his, that he loves him. This is all more than Nicolò can bear. 

“I love you.” Nicolò says, almost the same instant he thinks it. Yusuf’s pen explodes all over his piece of paper. He tosses both aside, even though Nicolò knows he’ll complain while he cleans it up later, and rushes over to kiss Nicolò frantically, desperately.

It’s not that they haven’t been kissing. Nicolò has been drunk on kissing Yusuf lately, kissing him until his lips hurt, kissing him to get his attention or to say hello or goodbye, good morning and goodnight. It’s that Yusuf is kissing him roughly, pressing him into the couch, physical in a way he hasn’t been for weeks. Nicolò missed him, feels like he spoke the words to some magic spell to get this again. Just as quickly Yusuf tears his mouth away, saying, “Fuck, I almost forgot.”

“Forget again.” Nicolò demands, kissing whatever part of his face he can reach. 

Yusuf does not forget again. “Did the doctor say…?”

“She’s going to, tomorrow.” Nicolò is sure of it, their appointment tomorrow is a formality more than anything, a final check for everyone’s peace of mind. Nicolò would rather get off now, peaceful or not. 

“Tomorrow, then.” Yusuf agrees, making Nicolò groan tragically. They’ve talked so much about sex lately for two people who haven’t been having any. Yusuf leans down to leave a mark on Nicolò’s neck, literally sucking up in apology or reward for his patience. It’s not that Nicolò needs it, he knows he could live here happily with Yusuf, trying to make the kingdom a better place for all its inhabitants and keeping Yusuf safe. He wants him though. It's as simple as that.

* * *

Nicolò’s ‘tomorrow’ begins with the feeling of Yusuf’s mouth pressing kisses along a crooked path down his body. His beard tickles and Nicolò feels the muscles in his stomach clench involuntarily. Before he met Yusuf, Nicolò doesn’t think a laugh had ever been the first sound he made to greet the day. Before Yusuf, Nicolò sometimes wouldn’t make any sounds in a day. Today he’s on a streak already, one of his favorite combinations, laughing and groaning and saying “ _Yusuf._ ” all in a row.

Yusuf’s response to this is to push Nicolò’s knees further apart and settle between his legs. He leans his head on one of Nicolò’s thighs to smile up at him, warm all over. There’s a question in the way he trails his hand down Nicolò’s chest, an offer in the quirk of his eyebrows, hunger lingering at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yes.” Nicolò says. His voice comes out rough enough that he clears it to repeat, “Yes. Yes, please.” 

He’s not hard yet, though he wakes that way sometimes, especially with Yusuf spooned behind him. Yusuf likes it this way, likes to get him there with just his mouth. Nicolò knows because they’ve talked about it. Between interrupting each other's reading and Yusuf sticking flowers behind his ears and all the kissing they’ve done in the past few weeks, they’ve gained a lot of insight into each other’s preferences. 

That’s how Nicolò knows to push up into Yusuf’s mouth, though it still feels rude. It also feels good, especially when Yusuf groans around him. He blows Nicolò until he’s properly hard, which doesn’t take long at all with the way he’s showing off. He licks his lips when he pulls off, saying, “Fuck, I missed that.”

Nicolò doesn’t complain that nobody was stopping Yusuf from having Nicolò’s cock in his mouth every day for _at least_ the past week, although he’s thinking it, he just pulls Yusuf on top of him for kissing. 

“You want to keep going, babe?” Yusuf asks soon after, probably because Nicolò is restlessly grinding up into him. 

“Can I fuck you?” Nicolò asks.

“Are you sure you’re…” Yusuf doesn’t finish his sentence, but his hand shifts over the scar on Nicolò’s abdomen, gentle.

“I don't want you to be scared.” Nicolò says, meaning both _I’m sure, let me prove it_ and _we don’t have to _.__

____

____

Yusuf scrambles for the bedside table, decision apparently made, but he shoots Nicolò a look for shifting onto his side. “Don’t move.”

Nicolò pauses but looks at Yusuf suspiciously, asking, “Why not?” 

“I’m going to ride you, I’ll do all the work.” Yusuf says, trying to push Nicolò onto his back again. He only has one hand for leverage, the other clutched around the lube. 

Nicolò resists him easily, pushing back, “Absolutely not.” 

“Nico, come on, you’re still-“ 

In a few quick moves Nicolò proves he’s not still injured enough that they shouldn’t do this, wrestling Yusuf under him, pressing him down against the bed until Yusuf stops struggling and stares up at Nicolò dazedly, already spreading his legs.

“You told me, remember?” Nicolò says, happy to release his hold enough for Yusuf to loop his legs around behind Nicolo’s thighs. “You said you like when I push you around a little. Even if you hadn’t told me, I would remember from that time in your closet.” 

“Our closet.” Yusuf corrects. He has a point, they’ve been sharing Yusuf’s wardrobe this entire time. 

“Can I fuck you?” Nicolò asks again. 

“Yes.” Yusuf says, handing him the slick. 

Nicolò lingers on preparing him, thinking back to the last time. He liked surprising Yusuf with being good at it, liked the way the prince seemed to think his hands were something special. He knows Yusuf still does. Watching his face while opening him up is a delight, the shape of his red mouth, the way his eyes have gone dark and heated. 

“Good?” Nicolò asks, working in another finger. He’s surprised, and maybe a little disappointed, that Yusuf isn’t jerking off to this. He liked that show last time too. 

“I’m waiting.” Yusuf says. Nicolò isn’t sure what his tone was meant to be, explanatory or impatient maybe, but he only sounds breathless. Nicolò thrusts his fingers in harder, but still doesn’t rush. “I was- ah, Nico, come on- I was trying to wait longer.”

“I know.” 

“Wanted you to know you didn’t have to, to stay.”

“I know, Yusuf.” Nicolò says, because he figured that out as soon as he got off the drugs, “I love you.”

“Fuck.” Yusuf groans, “Say that again with your cock in me.” 

Nicolò has to laugh, shaking with it, drawing his fingers free to clutch at Yusuf’s thigh and lean over him, pressing their foreheads together when he’s got the laughter somewhat under control. “You are a strange person.”

“Which one of us first said it during a discussion on grains?”

“Yusuf, please. If I said it while I was fucking you, what would you have thought?”

“I don't know Nicolò, but I think we should try it.” 

Nicolò gives in to this, but only because Yusuf was ready anyway. He slicks himself up and shifts into position like this isn’t only their second time. Yusuf’s body is familiar to him by now, though he’s eager to continue learning it like this. Nicolò lines up the head of his cock and presses in slow, watching Yusuf stoke himself through it.

“Good?” He checks again, rolling his hips experimentally. Yusuf nods but reaches for him, urging Nicolò to drop more of his weight down against him. When Nicolò does, pressing their foreheads back together, Yusuf clutches at his hair to keep him there. 

He thrusts harder, finding the right angle to grind in that makes Yusuf say, “More.” After that things get hazy. Nicolò can feel Yusuf’s heels at the back of his knees, loves the way Yusuf is pulling his hair and clutching at his arm, anchoring them together so Nicolò can shove in and feel it flow through them together like waves rolling in.

He’s vaguely aware of all the muscles he hasn’t been using much, shoulders and hips working, sweaty with it. All Nicolò is really thinking about is the look in Yusuf’s eyes, the way he’s holding Nicolò so close, the sweet press of his thighs on every thrust. He’s not talking much this time, just gasping out, “More, Nico, please.” 

Nicolò is already fucking him as hard as he can without pushing them both up against the headboard. He’s already unraveling, getting close from the way Yusuf’s holding tight to him with his whole body. He wants to keep giving him more, knows Yusuf likes just a little too much, but they’re too close for Yusuf to miss his hesitation.

“I want it, don’t pull out.” Yusuf says, bossy, filthy. Nicolò suddenly remembers his last demand. 

“I love you.” Nicolò tells him. His voice sounds fucked out, raw like Yusuf’s been using his throat. It’s hard to remember that Yusuf was the one sucking him when they started, feels like he’s been inside Yusuf for hours. He’s getting sloppy, rhythm breaking down to just fuck in and in and in, to give Yusuf what he’s asking for. 

Yusuf’s nails dig into his arm, he tugs on Nicolò’s hair, and he says, “ _Fuck_ , I’m gonna come. Nico, say it again?”

Nicolò is finding it hard to form words, gasping out mostly, “Ah, ah, ah-“ but he manages it for Yusuf, syllables blending together but still definitely, “I love you.”

They come more or less together, setting each other off. Nicolò tries to fuck Yusuf through it but he’s so tight, it’s too much. Eyes closed, foreheads still pressed together, Nicolò only pauses long enough to catch his breath. Yusuf doesn’t want to let him move an inch but Nicolò knows he wants the over stimulation. He mumbles something about fingers that gets Yusuf’s hand untangled from his hair so he can shift away, pull out slow, then fist Yusuf’s cock and fuck his come back into Yusuf’s ass with his other hand until Yusuf’s hips jerk away and he says, “Fuck, too much, I can’t- fuck, you _were_ listening.”

“I was.” Nicolò agrees, pulling his hands away. 

“Stop.” Yusuf begs, closing his eyes, “Your voice is a deadly weapon.”

Nicolò still doesn’t know how he’s so coherent right after sex, especially when he looks the way he does, limbs akimbo, sweaty and sticky and slick. He looks like he had been doing all the work after all. 

Yusuf opens one eye to catch him looking, “What?”

Nicolò shrugs, smirks. Yusuf just told him to stop talking.

“Nicolò.” Yusuf groans. He reaches his hands above his head and stretches, full-bodied, thighs tensing and relaxing against Nicolò. 

Nicolò appreciates this blatant tease and retaliates by dropping on top of Yusuf again, letting himself be heavy to the point of crushing, enjoying Yusuf’s startled move to protect his cock for the way it traps his hands between them. 

“Mmm.” Nicolò hums, pleased with this turn of events. 

Yusuf only deals with this human blanket scenario for so long before he says, “Do you want to shower with me?”

“Yes.” Nicolò says, “And everything else after that too.”

“Say it again?”

“I love you.”

(“Much better poetry, Nicolò, thank you.”)

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks go to @thewolvesrunwild and @hnghh for betaing and cheerleading and being the absolute best. 
> 
> I am once again asking if literally anyone else would read Andy and Quynh power couple and/or Lykon and Nile bffs in this universe. Let me know!
> 
> EDIT 12/24/20: I can't believe none of you lovely people TOLD ME that I fucked up continuity in my own shit!! That underwear got cut off of him!!!! Anyway I fixed it, if there's like a hundred words you don't remember being there... that's why. Happy holidays?


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